


Repercussions

by fragilelittleteacup



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Depression, Drug Use (Mentioned), Fluff, Friendship, M/M, Pre-Slash, Violence (Minor)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-08-13 21:17:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7986523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: Sherlock didn't use heroin on those train tracks. But that didn't mean everything was okay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Repercussions

Sherlock didn’t relapse.

It was nothing short of a goddamn miracle. An addict, led through drug dens, forced to look into the dead eyes of an overdose corpse, presented with a box of cocaine right in front of his eyes- and he _didn’t relapse._ He punched Oscar in the face and ran. Ran, ran, ran, until they finally found him curled up on the side of a railway line, unconscious from exhaustion, tear tracks drying on his cheeks. Oscar hadn’t pressed charges. Oscar hadn’t done anything. Oscar, motivated by his failure to drag Sherlock down into the depths of addiction, followed in the footsteps of his sister and was discovered only two days later in his apartment.

Joan came to the precinct and told Gregson and Marcus, ‘he’s still clean’, and they’d all gone silent, frowned and stared and laughed at the impossibility it.

Any relief had faded, however, with the subsequent thought; ‘for how long?’

Marcus hadn’t been inside the brownstone since he and Sherlock had worked a case together. He looked up at the building, feeling small and unwelcome, and remembered a time when he did not feel like an outsider here. How Sherlock and he had worked through the night, he’d fallen asleep on the couch by fire, and woken with a blanket on him that hadn’t been there before. Sherlock had bought him breakfast, and they’d shaken hands. _‘The pleasure was mine, and mine alone, Marcus’._ It had been… intimate, in a way that only Sherlock managed to make friendship.

Now he was here because he wanted to help, but he knew this might only make things worse. It had been a week since the relapse that didn’t happen. Sherlock hadn’t come to the precinct once. Joan had, but her smiles had become dimmer, and Marcus had caught her staring into the distance worriedly more than once.

“Joan, is there… Is there anything I can do?” He’d asked, visiting her in the conference room she’d filled with cold case files.

“I don’t know,” She’d sighed.

“Should I…” He’d hesitated, worried, unsure of how to tread Sherlock’s fragile lines, unsure what would be acceptable in this situation. “Should I visit? Would he…?”

She’d smiled. “I think he’d like that.”

Marcus, as he walked up the brownstone door, really, really hoped Joan was right.

He raised his hand to knock, when the door opened sharply.

“Hello, Marcus.”

Marcus blinked. Sherlock was wearing a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. He looked normal, mostly, but his eyes flickered up and down the street behind Marcus, and he impatiently gestured for him to enter.

“Hi.” Marcus shrugged off his coat as he entered. “How’d you know I was coming?”

“Cameras.” Sherlock took his coat, hung it up. “I’ve been watching them for several days now.”

Marcus reconsidered his pale skin. “Have you been outside?”

“In my life, yes.”

Now was not really the time for sarcasm. “You know that’s not what I’m askin’.”

Sherlock hesitated, looking down briefly. “Not since… No. I haven’t been outside, since… that.”

Silence fell. Marcus didn’t know what to say.

“Coffee, Marcus? I’d offer you tea, but I seem to recall your aversion to it.” Sherlock was already gone, walking away in the direction of the kitchen, footfalls heavy on the wooden floor.

“Guess that happens when you grow up in New York and Illinois.” Marcus joked, following. To his ears, it fell flat, but Sherlock chuckled, seeming to appreciate the attempt.

Marcus leaned against the dining table as Sherlock took out two mugs and poured coffee into one from a half empty pot.

“Where’s Joan at?”

“Sleeping, I imagine.” Sherlock replied. “These past few days have been… hard on her. I’m sure you’ve noticed. She needs rest.”

Marcus raised his eyebrows. “Looks to me like you do too.”

Sherlock didn’t look up from the coffee. “Sleeping has been… difficult.”

Marcus swallowed.

“Black with two sugars, yes?”

“…Yeah.”

Sherlock spooned two heaps of sugar into Marcus’ coffee and stirred them in. “You only started having sugar in your coffee a few months ago. May I ask why?”

This was weird. This was so weird, and so not like Marcus planned. They were skirting around the real discussion, and it was terrifying. Marcus didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what not to say.

“I haven’t got enough sugar in my diet.”

Sherlock frowned. “People as fitness-conscious as yourself don’t generally intentionally add sugar into their eating regimes.”

Marcus shrugged. “Life’s short.”

Sherlock smiled absent-mindedly, distracted, not really listening. He was still stirring the coffee.

Marcus waited. Sherlock kept stirring the coffee.

“…Sherlock…?”

Sherlock started. The spoon fell, clattering, to the kitchen bench. He took a deep, laboured breath. His shoulders were beginning to hunch, hands tightening into fists.

“I apologise.” He reached up and rubbed his face harshly, speaking through his teeth. “I’ve… not been myself. These past few days. I… I don’t know…”

“It’s okay.” Marcus stepped closer, and then thought better of it, and stopped where he was. “That’s why I’m here.”

“To do what?” Sherlock snapped.

Marcus had no idea. “To help.”

Sherlock laughed. He pressed his knuckles into his forehead, tapping against his skull, bone against bone. “And how do you plan to do that? How? Can you turn back time? Can you- Can you rid me of this,” He slammed his hands down onto the kitchen bench, the spoon and mug jumping at the impact. “, this- this _wanting,_ this _constant…!”_

Marcus felt a pulling in his chest. “Sherlock-”

_“There is nothing you can do!”_

The words, yelled hoarsely, sat between them, and neither of them moved.

Joan ran down the stairs. She burst into the kitchen, wearing pyjamas, and stopped. She didn’t say anything either. Sherlock looked up with tear-filled eyes, lips pressed into a thin line, and stalked out of the room.

Marcus felt his stomach fall. His eyes remained fixed on the coffee, where Sherlock had been standing.

“You tried.” She sighed. The weight of the world bore down on her tired voice. “He’ll be okay.”

A lie. Probably.

He made some excuse to leave, Joan looking enviously after him, as if wishing she could leave this newfound prison of pain and avoidance.

Arriving home, he locked the door behind him, and felt guilty.

 

 

***

 

 

Sherlock was beginning to think that running was his newfound solution to life.

He lay in his bed, curled up, knees against his chest, hands balled into loose fists, fingers pressed against his face. Marcus had come to help, and had said as much. Sherlock couldn’t blame him. He couldn’t blame Joan. The two people who wanted- more than anything, it seemed- to help him, when there was no way. It was impossible.

They were tethered to him, bound to him, affected by his pain. He closed his eyes, felt the heat of tears prickling below his eyelids. He grabbed fistfuls of his hair, pulled, held so hard that it hurt. A sob broke through his teeth.

Selfish, selfish, selfish.

 

 

***

 

 

Marcus looked at the bottles of beer in his fridge. He’d been looking at those bottles for a while now. Wondering whether he should drink them, or go out to a bar and socialise like a normal human being.

Right. Because all he’d end up talking about was the consulting detective he was kind of in love with, who he couldn’t help at all, because he didn’t know how to reach him. Maybe then he’d move onto his abusive father and the old man’s homophobic values, and how he'd enforced them.

He took a beer in hand, and had just cracked it open when there was a knock on his apartment door.

He paused, unsure whether he’d imagined it, when the knocking repeated itself.

“Marcus.” Came the quiet voice. “It’s me.”

Sherlock. Marcus practically threw the beer back into the fridge, heart suddenly beating faster. Shit, he was not prepared for this. He took a breath, prepared himself for any number of emotional highs and lows, and walked to the door.

Sherlock looked up guiltily when Marcus opened the door. He was wearing jeans and a button-down white shirt, the clothes sitting on him oddly, as if he’d thrown them on as an afterthought. He looked tired.

“I’m sorry. To visit you so late at night.”

“Hey, it’s okay. Ain’t even that late.” It was midnight. “Come on in.”

Sherlock did, and then stood there, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt as Marcus closed the door.

“Can I get you somethin’? Have you eaten?”

“I’m not hungry.” Sherlock said quietly. “Marcus, I…” He looked down.

"...Yeah, Sherlock?"

“I’ve put you through much, recently. You and Watson both. Tonight, she made her thoughts very clear, and helped me to realise that… if I continue as I am, Oscar will win. Moriarty will win. I’m better than this, Marcus. I will not allow myself to sink to such lows again. I have you. I have Watson. Selfish and all as I am, I have you both, and… as much as I can rely on you to help me, I must be the one to stand on my own two feet. I’m…I’m trying, Marcus. Not only for myself. For Watson, and for you. Seeing you both so affected by my depression made me realise that I couldn’t remain as I was."

Marcus swallowed, nodded.

"It would be… the most selfish act." Sherlock looked down, at his feet, bounced on his heels a little. "To hurt you.”

“You ain’t selfish.” Marcus was smiling. He tried to keep it subtle, but he couldn’t. He was too happy. “And if… If it gets hard again, you only gotta tell me. Or Joan. We’re here for you. However much you want us to be.”

Sherlock smiled. It was a small expression–something that may have even been missed in someone else’s face. But Marcus felt his chest warm, felt his face pull into a grin of his own.

“Sure you don’t want somethin’ to eat?”

“Well,” Sherlock was still smiling, “if you insist.”

 

 

***

 

 

Marcus reheated some pasta. It was hardly extravagant or special, but Sherlock stayed, and he'd never tasted anything more beautiful.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
